Лесли Чартерис - The Saint

Approaching the apartments. Templar slid behind a baroque pillar and waited — he didn’t wait long.

A genuine Kremlin guard rounded the corner. As he passed the pillar, Templar quickly seized him from behind and pressed an ether-soaked rag over the man’s face. He collapsed, unconscious, as a second guard came into view.

Templar called out in Russian as he hurried farther down the hall. “He’s had a seizure! I’ll get help!”

It took the second guard a moment to realize that he had never seen Templar before. Once the realization hit, his sidearm was aimed at the Saint.

“Sdavaites!”

Templar paid no heed to the guard’s call for surrender, but whirled around brandishing a pistol of his own. He shot one perfectly aimed round at the chandelier above the guard’s head. It shattered in a barrage of falling crystal, and the guard ducked for cover.

Alerted by the shot, a squadron of guards ran toward the sound. By the time they arrived, Simon Templar had daringly thrown himself into President Karpov’s private bedroom.

Startled awake, Karpov shielded his terrified wife with his own body. His eyes strained to focus on the man barricading the door.

Simon switched on the lights and held up his open palms toward the shocked and agitated president.

“I’m here to warn you, Mr. President, not harm you. You’re in danger, but not from me.”

“Get out!” yelled Karpov. “I could have you killed!”

“Sklarov’s Special Forces have mounted a coup,” explained Templar. “He’s on his way here right now.”

The president sat bolt upright while his wife pulled the sheets back up under her chin.

“Why wasn’t I—”

“Warned? Because many of your own Kremlin guards take orders from Sklarov,” declared Templar.

Muffled orders could be heard from the hall outside.

“I’m unhurt,” shouted Karpov, fearing his intruder was telling the truth. “Back off and leave us alone. If I need you, I’ll call you. Go away.”

His guards, reluctantly obedient, complied.

The Saint moved closer. His voice was even and nonthreatening.

“It’s all Tretiak’s work, Mr. President. How do you think this heating crisis came to exist?”

Karpov hid his head in his hands; his wife hid under the covers.

“It’s a nightmare, a dreadful combination of natural disasters, worker rebellion, and treachery by Tretiak!”

Templar sat down pleasantly on the edge of the bed.

“Natural disasters? Worker rebellion? President Karpov, you and I both know that Russia is richer in natural resources than any other country on earth — the world’s largest coal fields are here, as are vast deposits of petroleum...”

“Our coal processing abilities were crippled by the severe damage of earthquakes, and that damn Tretiak sold off our oil reserves to the West! If I could only find proof...”

Templar shook his head in negative sympathy.

“The coal crisis happened, conveniently enough, when Tretiak was minister of energy. He’s been planning this ruse for a long time, and I’m positive that he hasn’t sold a drop of oil to anyone. He’s been hoarding it himself.”

Karpov looked intently at the Saint, studying his face.

“Mr. President, the time is short,” insisted the Saint. “The coup is on, and Tretiak intends to humiliate you.”

Karpov’s face blanched; his wife trembled so hard it shook the bed.

“You didn’t force your way in here to tell me something I can do nothing about,” said Karpov, his plaintive expression far from presidential. “Do you have a brilliant suggestion?”

Templar smiled his most luminous smile, and his bright blue eyes gleamed with almost childlike mischief.

“Now that you mention it, a good-hearted scientist named Lev Botvin and I were discussing your dilemma only recently. You’re going to stand trial before the world in Red Square tonight. Whatever Tretiak accuses you of, admit to it.”

The president of Russia and the man at the top of Inspector Teal’s “Most Wanted” list had an intense and productive meeting of the minds. It would have gone on longer, but the bedroom door being suddenly blown off its hinges was a loud and effective interruption.

It was Sklarov. His Special Forces had overwhelmed the Kremlin guards by force of numbers and significant internal collusion. Not a shot was fired.

The gloating renegade general, his chest puffed out and his head held high, walked triumphantly into the president’s bedroom accompanied by two of his larger and more ominous men.

“My, my, my,” declared Sklarov, “what an interesting sight — the president, his wife, and a Kremlin guard. Too bad I forgot my camera.”

Karpov attempted sounding authoritative, but his reclining position and bedtime attire undermined his effort.

“What you’re attempting is illegal! The people won’t stand for it!”

Sklarov hacked out a rude laugh. “The people are too cold to stop it.” He snapped instructions. “Leave Mrs. Karpov here under guard, detain the former president downstairs, but let him get dressed first. He’d look too sympathetic and pathetic standing outside in his pajamas.”

Sklarov turned to appraise Simon Templar. “Who are you?”

“I’m Edmund Campion,” he replied, “named for the saint tried on false charges of treason.”

Sklarov ripped the epaulets from Templar’s uniform. “Isn’t a saint someone who dies horribly?”

“That’s a martyr,” said Templar helpfully. “A saint is someone who can be linked to three miracles.”

Mrs. Karpov peeked out over the bedspread.

Sklarov snorted and gave orders to his Special Forces. “He wants a miracle. Make him disappear!”

Not content to simply drag Templar from the room, the two Special Forces thugs gave him several body blows from their rifle butts before hauling him out the door.

“Your boss didn’t say anything about hitting me,” insisted Templar. “Who gave you guys the latitude to improvise?”

They ignored him.

As they roughly escorted Templar down the corridor, they came face-to-face with Ilya.

Templar was as surprised to see him as he was to see the Saint.

“What are you doing here?” Ilya was incredulous. “Why are you meddling in our politics when you could be out stealing something?”

“It’s not politics,” stated Templar flatly, “it’s personal.”

Sklarov was approaching, and Ilya wanted to appear powerful. After all, he had outfitted himself in full blackshirt regalia in honor of the triumphant coup.

“Let’s drag him out with the former president,” ordered Ilya. He escorted the heavily guarded captive down the hall, gloating with every step. “In a few minutes, the mob will tear you and the president limb from limb. And then, with busybodies and do-gooders done away with, Russia belongs to us.”

Templar begged to differ.

“No, Russia belongs to Daddy.”

If the Saint was baiting, Ilya wasn’t biting.

“True, Ivan Tretiak will rule with a mightier hand than any Russian tsar since Ivan the Terrible.”

“Interesting analogy,” said the Saint. “You know Ivan the Terrible killed his own son.”

Ilya, proudly striding, missed a step.

“Yes, by his own hand,” Templar continued conversationally. “The boy was just about your age, I believe...”

“Shut up!”

Simon smiled, Ilya scowled, and the soldiers led Templar out toward Red Square.

“Get ready for your final minutes of fame. Templar,” spat Ilya. “You’re going to be a featured player in our final big show.”

The “big show” to which Ilya referred was another one of Tretiak’s choreographed media events. Only the addition of a juggler spinning plates, trained seals tooting horns, or dancing bears doing the Lambada could have made it more viewer-friendly.